Notting Hill

Friday was a proper London adventure, by adventure I mean going to the pub with one group of people and leaving with another to go to a flat party for a chap you don't know.

I spent the whole time in a delightful drunken haze of cucumber martini's and white Russians it was like watching the evening in soft focus in the third person and the chap I was watching was having a wonderful time.

At some point much, much later on I sort of woke up from it all like diving through a wave of water. There was a girl sat on my lap and another one was sprawled across me like a sleeping cat. They were both feverishly applying make-up to my face pausing only to admire their handy work and then kiss me. On the otherside of the room I could see a chap trying to play a sad tune on a guitar with no strings. Another drink was pushed into my hand and I sipped on the vodka and tonic and looked at the debauchery happening around me. Every time I regained focus another drink was offered or another kiss, it was all rather intoxicating.

Thankfully after a while my homing instinct kicked in. I discovered that flagging down a cab while wearing lippy is a challenging affair. Clearly most cabbies are sexist bastards.

The rest of the weekend was spent in hiding trying to remove the make-up (I still have a bit of eyeliner on), followed by an extensive cleaning and cooking session. Which revealed that my cleaner appears to have stolen the frying pan, as well as the cheese grater, for what devilish motivations I just can't comprehend.